Chapter 13
thirteen
DANIEL COULDN’T SLEEP. He was also simultaneously too tired to keep his eyes open. The result was nearly losing his pinkie toe to the antique dresser in his guest room and a muted scream upon impact. Spitting out the cuff of his sweatshirt—which had been used to muffle said scream—he forced one eye open and stumbled into the hallway.
The Victorian two-story was dark, even the moonlight coming through the window at the end of the hall barely reaching inside. And aside from his own disruptions, the old lady sat silently.
Normal people weren’t up at 4:30 in the morning. Normal people got more than a passing flutter of sleep.
Normal people could stop thinking about a certain someone’s smile as she’d lain in the snow. They didn’t constantly recall that tug low in the stomach. The one he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.
Normal people weren’t consumed with a desire to kiss their favorite pastry chef just to know if she tasted as sweet as her pies. To know if she’d melt into them like pocket butter. To find out if her curls were softer than silk.
Coffee first. Then he’d come up with a plan for all the rest of that.
Because as long as Whitney was taking up all his waking moments—and forcing more of those than he wanted—he was going to have to do something about it.
He trotted down the hallway toward the back stairway, then held on to the handrail like the lifeline it was. His feet stumbled a few times, his socks falling off his toes and catching on the floorboards. As he jerked forward, his hand slid against the worn wood, but it held fast.
He owed a thank-you to whoever had double-bolted the wooden rail into the wall. Probably Seth.
He tucked that thought away as he arrived safely on the first floor, the kitchen dark and only the faint scent of yesterday’s pies in the air. Scowling, he ran his hand along the wall, searching for a light switch. His middle finger connected with the side of a cabinet, and he grumbled again, pressing his sore knuckles to his lips. The whole house was out to get him.
After a long pause, he carefully stretched his fingers back to the cabinet and ran his hand along it until he reached the fridge. Around the door. Then to the hood over the stove. Three buttons there. He flipped one, and the fan turned on, angry and violent. It destroyed the silence, and he flung himself at the button to turn it off.
Quiet returned in an instant, and he held his breath as he tried the next one.
Light burned his eyes, and he stumbled backward into the corner of the island’s countertop. It jabbed him in the hip as he swung his hands up to cover his face.
Maybe he’d have done better to stay in bed.
Memories of sledding with Whitney the day before were certainly preferable to bodily harm. The way she’d felt in his arms, trusting him enough to lean into him. To let him steer. The sound of her laughter, so infused with joy and delight. It had wound its way around his chest so many times that when they landed in the snowdrift, he hadn’t been sure if it was Whitney or their dismount that had stolen his breath.
He should have rolled off her, held out his hand, and helped her up. Like a gentleman. His mom had drilled those reminders into his head for as long as he could remember.
Hold the door open for the lady behind you. Or in front of you.
Look people in the eye when you’re speaking with them.
Speak clearly and don’t mumble.
Help people up if they fall.
Don’t lay on top of someone significantly smaller than you.
Okay, she hadn’t said that last one. But she probably would have if she’d seen them in the snow.
He couldn’t even blame his action—or lack thereof—on ignorance. He’d known better. But he hadn’t been able to move for the rush of fire through his veins and the hammering of his heart, which had bounced against his ribs like a basketball, not in an attempt to escape but more of a reminder that it was there. That he hadn’t been paying enough attention to it lately.
Then Whitney had smiled at him. And he wanted to kiss her.
God knew he hadn’t wanted to kiss anyone since Lauren.
But the tug low in his stomach couldn’t be denied. It was like a rope tied to Whitney, connecting them, pulling him wherever she went.
He blinked hard against the light above the stove. It wasn’t as bright as he’d thought, and his eyes quickly adjusted to the soft glow that stole across the tile countertops. The coffee maker sat in the corner, plugged in but empty. He set about fixing that, and within a few minutes, the heady aroma of dark roast filled the space, already clearing the fog from his mind.
He was a cup and a half and twenty minutes into daydreaming about Whitney when he realized he wasn’t alone.
“You make enough of that to share?” Seth strolled over from the swinging door, rubbing his hand over his morning beard. His eyes, too, looked to be at half-mast, but he managed a dip of his chin in greeting.
Daniel offered a salute of his mug before taking another sip.
Seth poured himself a full mug, leaving no room for cream, and took a big gulp. “Mmm.” He sighed into it as steam spirals rose. “Thanks. I usually have to make it when Caden’s not here.”
With a tip of his head, Daniel accepted the gratitude but said nothing else.
They stood in relative silence, only the occasional sips from their cups breaking the quiet. He didn’t know much about Seth, but a man who could be still and silent was worth knowing.
Though Seth didn’t keep it up for too long. “Hard time sleeping?”
Daniel glanced at his worn sweats and ran a hand through hair that was almost certainly a wild mess. “What gave it away?”
Seth chuckled. “I eventually ended up here too.”
“At the inn?”
“In the kitchen.” He flashed a partial grin. “I guess because I was looking for someone.” His smile turned knowing.
“Marie?”
“Uh-huh. We spent a lot of hours here building this kitchen. Rebuilt it after it flooded too.” Seth slurped a long sip. “You looking for Whitney?”
No. Maybe. “Yes.”
He looked at his watch. “She’ll be here soon.”
As if on cue, the back door opened, the wind and cold howling through the mudroom and into the warmth of the kitchen. Feet stomped and Whitney’s low voice hummed “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
“Whoa.” She paused midway through unwinding her scarf as she tumbled into the kitchen. “Wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee. Did you bring muffins at least?”
Seth snorted, and Daniel easily found his own smile.
“Sorry, kid,” Seth said as he put his empty cup in the sink and poured almost all of the carafe into a to-go bottle. “But I’ll leave you a cup.”
“So thoughtful.” She laughed as he patted her shoulder and disappeared into the mudroom and beyond. Piling her coat and various cold weather accoutrements onto one of the island stools, she looked up. Her eyebrows jumped, almost like she was surprised to see Daniel still there.
“Morning.” He raised his mug toward her. “I can make more if you want.”
“You made the coffee?”
He nodded.
“Isn’t it kind of early to be up and going?” She cocked her head, her gaze sweeping from his hair to his feet. “Well, up , anyway.”
He gave himself a quick once-over too. There was no denying that he was still in his pajamas—in fact, he could feel the cool air coming through the hole under his arm. And he’d been too sleepy to bother with anything as trivial as a mirror when he’d left his room. Yeah, he probably looked like a mess compared to his normal. Compared to her.
Whitney looked like she had risen to summon the sun. Her honey-colored hair already glowed in the dim oven light, and her eyes shone like amber, warm and welcoming.
This was why he’d stumbled out of bed. He hadn’t even known it then. But now he did. This was why he’d risked the stairs and the myriad other obstacles.
To see her.
With a shrug, he said only, “It’s early for you too.”
“Actually, I’m running a little bit late.” She chuckled and marched toward the big stainless-steel refrigerator. “That is, if you want to eat breakfast and I want to get my pies made before the kids want to play.”
“Need an extra pocket for your butter?”
She shot him a hard glare that melted faster than said butter in the microwave. “Not today. But you can do up the eggs.” She paused, her eyebrows dipping with uncertainty. “You do know how to crack an egg, don’t you?”
He snorted but put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I—a confirmed bachelor—have never starved.”
Her forehead wrinkled her disbelief at his performance.
“Okay, that’s mostly due to takeout. But I know how to make eggs.”
“Good.” She held out a cardboard carton from the fridge. “Get to work. We need a dozen cracked and whisked in a bowl.”
He stared at the carton for a long beat, trying to make her think he hadn’t yet decided if he was going to help her. Though that decision had been made the second the back door opened. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Summoning as much dramatic flair as he could, he took the proffered eggs and began setting up a workstation beside the sink. “Bowl?”
From her place on the opposite side of the sink, she pointed a large knife at one of the top cabinets, then resumed cutting a slab of bacon. He thought she was wholly focused on her job as he reached for the plastic mixing bowl on the second shelf, but her loud snicker made him freeze.
When he looked down, she had craned her neck to get a better view of his armpit. “How long have you had that thing?” she asked.
“The sweatshirt? Since uni. So, ten years.”
“No.” She giggled again. “The hole.”
He shrugged and returned to his spot. “Not quite as long.”
“Why don’t you fix it? I bet Marie has a sewing kit around here somewhere.”
“And ruin the ventilation? I can wear this thing year-round. Warm in the winter. Cool in the summer. It’s the perfect sweater.”
“Or, you know, you could get clothes for each season.”
“Why would I do that?”
She shook her head and laughed, her knife moving carefully over green onions and red peppers.
“You’re really good at that, you know.”
Her cheeks pinked, but she didn’t look up from the smooth rocking motion of the knife as it skimmed past her knuckles.
The memory of their conversation on the night they’d looked at the lights came flooding back, and he blurted out his question before he could think twice. “Why don’t you want to go to culinary school?”
The blade stopped mid-slice, but she didn’t look up. “I already told you. I do want to go.”
“But it’s not your dream.”
The corner of her bottom lip disappeared, and her eyes remained unblinking but also unfocused. He could tell she wasn’t looking at breakfast. He just couldn’t see what she did.
“Don’t you have a dream?”
When she finally responded, her voice came out soft, as if from far away. “Do you?”
“I guess. I wanted to work in an office—to somehow use numbers.”
“Why not a CEO? Why not start your own company?”
He snorted. “You have to be a people person for those roles. You have to be able to read other people and schmooze as needed and make small talk with people you don’t know.”
“You think Mark Zuckerberg is a people person?”
He focused on the egg in his hand, cracking it against the rim of the bowl. “I think Mark Zuckerberg had an idea and vision for something big enough that he doesn’t have to play by the rules the rest of us do.” He took a deep breath. “I like numbers. They don’t require small talk. And they always work out. If they don’t, I get to play detective and figure out why.”
“Don’t lie—did you want to be a cop when you were a kid? An investigator?”
“Not even a little bit. That job is messy. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and your dreams. Remember?”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her mouth drawn into a tight line. “I want to have a dream.” She stopped, her lips twitching as though she couldn’t quite find the words. “You know in grade school when you’d have a project to research what you wanted to be when you grew up, and all the girls picked ballerinas and hairstylists and doctors? And the boys picked architects and baseball players and teachers? Well, I couldn’t choose. So my dad suggested I look in the newspaper want ads to see who was hiring.”
“What did you end up deciding on?”
“Sanitation worker.”
He wanted to laugh. The very idea of pretty, petite Whitney driving a garbage truck and wrestling bins was absolutely ludicrous. But there was a sadness in her eyes that made him swallow his laughter and step closer to her.
“But you didn’t choose that career path. You chose something better.”
She shook her head until her hair danced. “No, I settled for something better. Not being able to decide,” she whispered, “isn’t the same as choosing.”
He hadn’t even realized he’d covered the four steps between them, but suddenly she was within arm’s reach, and he ran his hand from her shoulder to her elbow, stopping there to squeeze gently. “You’re a contradiction, Whitney. You tell me these stories, and I barely recognize the girl in them. You say you can’t stick to anything, but then you put everything you have into going to a culinary school you don’t really want to attend. And everyone in this inn loves you. You’ve clearly been showing up for Marie and Seth and Aretha and Jack for years. Marie and Seth trust you with their home and their kids. That means something.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
She blinked three times in quick succession before her gaze darted toward the window over the sink. He looked in the same direction toward the water beyond the field of glistening snow. The first rays of morning sun made everything sparkle.
“You’ve made this season special for those kids.”
Whitney shook her head and stepped away. “I’ve been a mess. I don’t have much planned, just whatever comes to mind.”
“So what? They don’t need an itinerary. They just need your time and your attention.”
“But I’ll say it again.” She sighed. “It’s not the same as having a dream.”
“Then find one.”
“It’s not that easy.”
He opened his mouth to push her a little more, to get her to reveal some truth that maybe she wasn’t even telling herself. But she interrupted him.
“This isn’t a therapy session. Now back to work and finish cracking the eggs so we can make the breakfast casserole.”
“Already done. And no shell,” he announced, double-checking just to make sure.
“Good job. Do you want a gold star?” She glanced at the paper taped to the far wall with Julia Mae’s and Jack’s names written on the left and a row of unevenly placed stickers following, each clearly celebrating their good behavior. At the end was written a prize for when they reached it.
Maybe he did want a gold star. Now he just had to figure out how to fill up a whole chart. Because the prize at the end would be Whitney. And he couldn’t think of anything better.